Blue and Gold 1968-71

Our first few days at OCS began the same way. We were awakened “crisply” at 5:30 am by fellow officer candidates (those in the class next to graduate) and told to muster in the hallway. There, we were put through a series of “calisthenics” — situps, pushups, running in place (physical training, or “PT”). It seemed the intent was to get us to the point of puking. Those leading the different exercises rotated, but, of course, we didn’t. Some of us were in excellent shape. My roommate, Lenny Borg, had the upper body of a gymnast. I, on the other hand, though somewhat “lean,” was limited in musculature. Most of us, I believe, were unsuccessful in doing all that had been ordered to the full degree.

Then it was back to the room to make your bed . . . the Navy way. Precise number of inches for the turned down top sheet. Crisp “hospital” corners at the bottom. Top sheet and blanket tight enough to allow a coin to bounce on it. Whether the bed was properly made or not, it was often mussed up by an inspector, maybe more than once, so you had to do it again. The time for that meant you had less time for other things, so you began to feel constantly behind.

Next, it was head call. You had maybe a couple of minutes to do your business, brush teeth, etc. Then, having gotten into uniform, muster for our first morning formation. Form into groups, march to the chow hall. First few times, we were given only several minutes to go through the lines and eat.

The first full day was a Sunday, so it was holiday routine . . . for others. Our Sunday was spent studying org charts and lists, all the while polishing our “boondockers,” also “boonies,” the black shoes in the style of chukka boots issued to us, or shining the brass of our belt buckles. The boonies were all leather, not corfam or other shiny material. While the rest of the boot had to be somewhat polished, the focus was on the toe. You needed to get that to shine.

Our overseers would frequently enter our rooms, which required us to stand at attention. They would then ask questions about the information we had been ordered to learn and, if your answer was incorrect, you would be “gigged,” given one or more demerits.

We were told that weekend liberty, the freedom to leave the base, was dependent on not having too many “gigs.” At the rate I remember being gigged, I calculated that, by the third day, I had easily exceeded the allowed number and would not likely see liberty for many weeks. And I had reached that level in just the first couple of days!

Among the information we needed to know was the NATO phonetic alphabet, i.e., alfa, bravo, charlie . . . . We also had to switch to 24-hour time. We no longer got up at 5:30 a.m., but 0530. We didn’t go to bed at 10:30 p.m., but 2230. (My kids and several of my friends still bridle a little as I often use, even now, the NATO alphabet and 24-hour time. It stuck.)

There were frequent inspections, of rooms and of uniform. Room inspections were often unannounced, except by the presence of a couple of overseers, who did the “white glove” thing, finding “dust,” noting improper storage of items in closets, etc. More gigs. Uniform inspections emphasized things like the “gig line.” You had a proper gig line when the zipper line of your trousers, the edge of the belt buckle, and the seam of your buttoned “blouse” lined up exactly. (It irks me somewhat, but I still make a correct gig line.)

It was not that any one thing was terribly difficult, though morning PT was often taxing, eating was sporadic, and bathroom access was sometimes “uncomfortable.” It was more that you couldn’t anticipate what was going to happen and, even if you had learned your “homework,” no success was acknowledged.

On one evening, maybe Tuesday night of the first week, maybe a day or so later, overseers ran into our area and announced an immediate uniform inspection. I remember lining up with the rest of A6903 along the wall in our corridor. I think it was our company commander, the officer candidate selected from that top class, who did the inspection. He stood in front of each of us, looked us up and down, and itemized the various things wrong with our appearance. Among the many gigs he gave me was one for “stuckle on my buckle.”

Fellow A6903er Dennis Greenspon has some memories of that night, too. “My remembrance is that the company commander, or whatever he was, and another guy were wearing their dress swords,” he said. “They faced each other and drew their swords in salute. When one of them pocked a hole in the overhead and started to crack up . . . that’s when I finally started to think that something goofy was going on.”

As I calculated in my head the number of gigs I had received and tried to imagine what the next 17 weeks would be like, I felt I was at my breaking point.

Then . . . the hallway was filled with our overseers. And they were different. They were smiling, laughing, handing us cans of soda. We learned that our first several days at OCS was a hazing ritual and that it was over. The relief and happiness at that time, I think, were palpable.

I think I understand the objective of such a ritual. I think there may be some rationale for a period of stress and shock to transition from one style of living to another. It certainly made the rest of our time at OCS seem better. I “survived” that initial ritual and it seems the rest of A6903 did, too. I am also aware that our experience was less intense than “boot camp” for Navy and other services. I also suspect, however, there were young men who faltered during that time and may not have recovered fully.

In any case, I remember it still. Completely and entirely accurately, probably not, but I remember. I’m glad to see, too, that the process of indoctrinating civilians into military life has since become based more on psychology than tradition.

More to come about “regular” OCS.

On this date, 50 years ago, I arrived at Naval Officer Candidate School (NAVOCS or OCS), Naval Base, Newport, R.I., for the first of my 1,035 days on active duty in the Navy.

There were about 225 others in the class designated 6903 (third class to enter since the beginning of federal fiscal year 1969) and we joined three classes that had entered on a monthly frequency before us.

I had driven alone from my family home in Springfield, Mass. Current directions show about a two-hour drive, but I don’t think some of the current highways were then in operation, so it was likely longer.

OCS was located on Coddington Point, just north of Newport itself. The aerial view at right was taken around this time, as it appeared in the 6903 edition of Seachest, the OCS “yearbook.”

I remember driving my 1965 Sunbeam Tiger, the first car I personally purchased, into a dirt parking area. Upon getting out of the car, I was immediately set upon by a person in uniform who demanded that I button up the sport coat I was wearing — “All the buttons!” I was then told to retrieve my belongings and follow him. I don’t remember if I had a suitcase or a duffel bag. Then again, I suspect we had been told not to bring much in the way of personal clothing.

Fellow civilian Bob Hamilton recalls his arrival thusly: “I drove to the parking lot to park and check in. I got out of the car and I saw an officer candidate in the distance walking toward me. Knowing that he was a naval officer and a gentleman, I extended my hand in fellowship. The closer I got to him, I then understood him to be screaming at me that buttons were for buttoning. That’s as friendly as it got.”

We joined other civilians on their last day as such and others in uniform and marched, less than smartly, to a building of some sort, where we began the experience of being transformed from a civilian to whatever creature a fledgling officer candidate lowlife can be. My father, who was an Army veteran of WWII, may have told me that I would get a short haircut upon arrival. To preserve some semblance of style and individuality, I had gone to a barber only a couple of days earlier and had gotten the shortest haircut I can remember. I figured they would see it and let me skip the haircut. Right. First dash of cold reality.

I was not “given a haircut.” My head was “sheared,” in a manner close to that the officer candidate in the photo enjoyed. Then it was a whirlwind. At some point, being issued clothing, with sizes often being determined by the judgment of the Navy enlisted man looking you up and down. “Keep moving. Keep moving.” “Marching” somewhat haphazardly, laden with clothing and other stuff, from building to building. At some point, we must have eaten. At another point, you ended up in your squad, a group of 12-15 officer candidates. Four cohorts of squads, having arrived a month apart, made up a company. Sixteen companies formed the regiment. I was one of 14 members of Alfa Company 6903. The companies followed the NATO phonetic alphabet, Alfa, Bravo, Charlie . . . with the 16th company named Quebec. (India was not used.) I doubt much, if any, thought went into who went into which company, or who roomed with whom in the two-man cement-block rooms.

By the time we were in our assigned rooms in Nimitz Hall, one of the two huge and relatively new residential structures at OCS, we were under the control of the A6903 “seniors,” the cohort of the company that was to graduate next. And that was not fun. More to come on the first several days at OCS.